


fanning the flame

by futureseaempress



Category: The Magnus Archives
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:55:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25511686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futureseaempress/pseuds/futureseaempress
Summary: Agnes falls in love with Gertrude.Gertrude is Gertrude about it.Agnes falls in love with Jude.Jude is a very worthy disciple about it.Then Agnes meets Jack.
Relationships: Agnes Montague/Gertrude Robinson, Agnes Montague/Jude Perry, Fire play - Relationship, Pyrophilia - Relationship, Restraints - Relationship, everything but sex - Relationship
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have updated and fixed this first chapter twice because I can never be satisfied lmao

Agnes Montague had made early adolescence gruesome by her entanglements with others' misery. She was the type of little girl that old ladies stopped in the grocery store to tell her how beautiful she was. More than one adult that received minor burns for touching her beautiful red curls unprovoked. Agnes’ primary pastime, making off with the terrors of more than a few young men who passed through the house on Hill Top Road, kept her out of the public eye for the most part. By the age of thirteen, she had wrapped most of the orphaned boys wrapped around her pinky finger with just a look. The mystery that shrouded her very existence was enough to enrapture anyone that laid on eyes on her, but whether that was a subconscious appraisal of her godhood or just her natural beauty is any man's game. 

The young Montague’s ‘fascination’ with causing those around her to feel her rather than fear her had grown exponentially by the time she reached maturity. Her childhood was practically a life long experiment. Testing and exploring the taste of fear and feeding off of it. Following growth’s progression, she yearned for more as she aged. It started with sneaking a kiss on the cheek of her latest victim, then it became a tug of their loose hair or a snip of a stray thread. With little acts like these, she was able to demand someone’s full attention, without much effort on her part. 

As a woman of little words, Agnes was known to get lost in her thoughts. Other gods were known to accept their status and accelerate through the ranks. Agnes, however, made room for self-analysis as she milled over the thoughts of the world she lived in and how its utter admiration made her feel. She often conceded to herself that surely she was feeling what any young Messiah would: a visceral need to be adored and a respect for those who feared her. Unlike any other avatar, she was born into her role, which left her wondering how those without her gifts functioned. How was it to wake in the morning and feel completely alone? To know you were in no one’s thoughts but your own? What was it like to be a person? She had been taught that fear and glory would be enough, and she knew it was all she needed to be sustained, but Agnes wanted to thrive.

She yearned to fan the flame. The flame that grew in her belly whenever she caught a disciple of the Cult of the Lightless Flame staring. She wanted to walk over and mark each new member with flames from the tips of each of her fingers. Starting with a dull warmth, until they were left whimpering beneath her hand, but not enough for them to enjoy becoming a martyr. Agnes’s absent mind merged fear and lust into one act. Worship was an entanglement with lust that not even God could unwind. 

Gertrude Robinson was not the first woman to look upon her with nothing more than unadulterated contempt. But she was the first who just kept looking. Her gaze crawled right under Agnes' skin and made her feel a deep burning within her stomach. Normally, this feeling was attuned to the look of appreciation from her kindred desolate souls. The way Gertrude looked at her went beyond worship and love. To Agnes, Gertrude’s gaze could destroy cities and raze the fires of hell. In reality, she was just a woman who appeared to have a great amount of disdain for the woman standing across from her. Gertrude’s reproach for her mere existence was something so new and thrilling that Agnes’ cheeks seemed to glow like ember coals under the watcher’s gaze. 

“Archivist,” Agnes said, addressing the woman who stood in the middle of her bare living room. She wasn’t exactly sure how Gertrude had found her way in, but Agnes had never been the type to ask too many questions. 

“Miss Montague,” Gertrude replied, “I believe you have some information about your childhood home, that I find myself in dire need of.” 

Agnes could feel the Beholding pulling at her mind, urging her to speak her knowledge into existence. 

“I wouldn’t try that.” As Agnes spoke the fire of a nearby candle swayed and flared, warning Gertrude of what the avatar was capable of. 

“No need to get quite so touchy,” Gertrude sighed, slipping a tape recorder out of her pocket and setting it on the floor. The image paralleled that of an officer lowering their gun in a hostage situation. She liked seeing Gertrude this way. The archivist was practically bowing to her. Agnes wasn’t used to being shown contempt for her existence. Anyone, she saw regularly worshipped her and most of the public admired her based on her stunning looks alone. Gertrude’s disdain almost felt like a challenge of wills or of whose god had the upper hand. Who would bend their will? Eye or the Flame? Who would concede the upper hand? Who would be forced to worship the other? It was exciting.

“What use is a statement from me, can’t you know everything… utter omniscience and what have you?” 

“For all the Eye watches and knows, it has a serious lack in... understanding. Besides, I only came to drop this off,” she gestured to the tape recorder, “if you decide to share your story, I’ll know.” 

With that Gertrude made her way towards the door and was gone as quickly as she came. It wasn’t very often Agnes was completely alone like this. Left in a coffee shop for a few hours there, lightly followed as she walked around a park, accompanied to the door and sometimes after by some slimy soul enamored by the Desolation. Once she reached adulthood she made a show of anyone who tried to monitor her as they had throughout her early years. The servant of the Eye of Beholding had timed her visit for when a sacrifice had been made and Agnes was alone to reap the benefits of the offering. 

It would be some time before Agnes would see the archivist again. It was during their second meeting, a few months later, that she noticed just how tired the older woman appeared. A five years age difference was plastered across her face by way of worry lines, early-onset crows feet, and long gray hairs. ‘Knowing must really do a number on one’s physical form,’ Agnes thought. ‘Not like destruction,’ she added to herself. Agnes truly believed that the fountain of youth must be made of coal and flames as years past and Agnes’ skin remained smooth and her hair vibrant. Despite Gertrude’s signs of age and temperament, Agnes still felt a pull towards her. The feeling grew from the pit of her stomach all the way up to a glow in her cheeks as Gertrude approached her booth. A coffee sat untouched in front of her. Steam rose from the mug as the archivist took a seat across from her.

“I see you still haven’t taken advantage of my gift,” Gertrude said. 

Agnes shrugged.

Gertrude tutted, “Where have my manners disappeared to? Hello, Miss Montague,” she gave a sly grin. “You look absolutely ethereal today. How did you sleep?” 

Agnes’ eyes flickered about Gertrude’s features, and up to the top of her head. So far she had counted seven gray hairs. 

“How’s the coffee?”

Agnes smirked at that, pushing her steaming mug towards the other woman as if to say ‘See for yourself.’ 

”Oh, no thank you. I’m more of a tea drinker myself,” Gertrude replied, reading the gesture correctly. 

Agnes shrugged once more. 

Gertrude sat for a moment, clearly concocting a turn of phrase that would pull what she wanted to know from under Agnes’ skin.

“Why don’t you just do it already? Make this less painful for the both of us,” Agnes sneered.

“I would love to, but I don’t think I can.” As soon as she said it, Agnes realized the same to be true about herself. She could tear this whole building down without a second thought -- but the mental image of Gertrude going down with it made her stomach turn. 

She quirked an eyebrow and drew the mug back towards herself, a peace offering. 

“No use wasting more time than I already have,” Gertrude said, getting up to leave. 

“Archivist,” Agnes called, turning to face her at the door, “come and see me again. I might consider changing my mind.” 

It went on like that between them, sitting in the coffee shop. Sometimes they’d venture to a library Agnes occasionally visited or even a nearby pond. Gertrude waiting for Agnes to give her statement, and Agnes shining in her company. She wasn’t sure how long she planned to make her wait, but she had grown to appreciate the company. Gertrude didn’t mind the wait. She’d hired a new archival assistant to send on her excursions, and she brought her notes along with her. The book contained pages that spiraled and made little sense to someone outside of Gertrude’s own head. That said, when Agnes bothered to glance at them, she always understood what they meant. Gertrude, though, always seemed to catch her glances and move the page away.

No member of the Lightless Flame was aware of these meetings. Gertrude always knew when it was safe to saunter in and be the only one watching Agnes. Agnes was amicable about giving up her alone time to watch as Gertrude wet her fingers to turn a page or listen as she clicked her pen. 

One day, as Gertrude approached Agnes felt her heart stop. She took in the sight before her in absolute awe. Gertrude was already an attractive woman in her flowy shirts with big loose ties and high tight pants that sat just right. Not to mention her salt and pepper bun and wireframes that could make a weaker man or woman melt before her. Most people would write her off as a grouch librarian, but Agnes saw past the archivist’s facade. Agnes saw Gertrude as a presence that demanded attention and respect. Which, Agnes was always happy to give.

Needless to say, Agnes always found Gertrude lovely to look at. However, the sheer difference between Gertrude’s normal appearance and how she was looked at that very moment was enough to stop anyone in their tracks. She had donned a pair of chunky heels and a boldly patterned dress that hit her mid-thigh. Her glasses were folded and resting on her chest and she looked frazzled, but that only added to the appeal. Her embarrassment made Agnes grin, and a light flickered in her eye. Strands of Gertrude’s hair had fallen from her usually tight bun, and they framed her face marvelously. Agnes wanted to reach out and tuck them behind her ears and whisper anything Gertrude wanted to hear. Instead, she dialed her poker face up to eleven and waited for the watcher to give her explanation. 

“You can wipe that grin off your mouth and stop staring. The girls in the archive graced me with a makeover for what they’ve apparently been calling my secret romantic lunch dates.” Agnes blushed at that. While Gertrude rolled her eyes, a look Agnes had learned to mean embarrassment rather than spite. She had long since accepted that there was attraction between herself and the woman sitting across from her. But for an outsider to recognize and understand better than either of them, it made the red hot feeling in her stomach twist and coil. 

Gertrude fixed her glasses and took out her notes as she always did. The little movement made Agnes’ heart swirl. Adjusting her glasses, like all the little things Gertrude did--crossing out a word in her notes, scrambling to find one she wanted, how she wet the tip of her pen on her tongue-- made Agnes admire her more. On the days she recorded casual statements in front of her, Agnes would go starry-eyed at her eloquent pronunciation. They were usually silly ghost stories that Agnes wasn’t entirely sure weren’t meant to confuse the eye rather than serve it. 

“You’re late,” was all Agnes could bring herself to say, when her mind came back to the present.

“Keeping tabs on me now, are we?”

“No - you just always arrive by a quarter til one. It’s one o’ four.”

“Oh, my apologies, Miss Montague-”

“Agnes.” She interrupted. Agnes had suddenly decided she was tired of the formality between them after months of shared afternoons.

“Agnes,” Gertrude’s voice took on a softer tone, “I didn’t realize my presence had such an impact.” 

Agnes made a disapproving sound as she watched Gertrude’s mouth. 

“Of course, you could just want to sneak another peek at my notes,” she chided, pointing at Agnes with her shiny ink pen.

“It’s a bonus,” Agnes noted, letting her leg graze Gertrude’s under the table, trying to seem absentminded. 

No sign of freckles, but worry lines to boot. They did nothing to retract from her beauty but certainly added to her whole brooding and respectable schtick. The way she placed the pen to her tongue to wet the ink and the back of the pen to the center of her forehead when she was really at a loss for words. The watcher being so closely watched, it made Agnes grin. 

After that day Agnes began a running tally of times that Gertrude did a little something to make her heart flutter. It reminded her of her own tricks at Hill Top Road. A little movement of a skirt, adjusting a bracelet, checking for her earrings. To combat how she felt about Gertrude, Agnes began laying on more of her little tricks. She pulled a number of long gray hairs from Gertrude's shirts. Gave her coffee a long and deliberate stir whenever her counterpart first arrived. A comment about a run in the other’s tights, a sewing kit or clear nail polish pulled from a pocket the next time Gertrude wore the same hose still unmended. 

The first time she managed to fully come in physical contact with Gertrude it had been on accident. Given Agnes’ intention and whatever it was that was keeping them together, Gertrude didn’t burn or bubble- but there was a warm mark, like a faint sunburn where Agnes had touched her. Agnes, normally quite nimble, had slipped when standing up from a bench near a pond they liked to spend some of their days together. She was planning to leave as for only the second time Gertrude was late and she was beginning to assume their little rendezvous was canceled. But like she knew it was going to happen, Gertrude had appeared and caught Agnes before she touched the floor. 

The next time Agnes touched her she made sure it was intentional. Gertrude’s hand had been posed propping herself up on the hillside near the lake, the same place they touched before. Agnes’ palm crept closer and closer to Gertrude’s until her little finger splayed across the archivists hand.

Little acts like this continued until it was apart of their routine for Agnes to tuck a piece of Gertrude’s hair away, or tangle her foot between the other’s ankles, or press their hands together. Their little bits of conversation grew into long-winded stories mostly with Gertrude spilling about her assistants and Agnes nodding along. 

The day Agnes decided to give her statement was gloomier than she would have hoped for. The sun didn’t want to come up that morning and Gertrude had arrived both late and soaking. One of her assistants had made off with her umbrella and she knew if she didn’t leave right when she did something was going to steal Agnes’ attention- she wouldn’t say what though. 

Agnes cleared her throat as Gertrude began to settle into their usual meeting monotony. 

“I think I’m about ready to tell you about myself.” 

“Oh. Alright then,” there was something sad at the corners of Gertrude’s expression. Agnes couldn’t understand what. 

She took out a long sheet of paper, and Agnes slid the tape recorder she’d left with her months before across the table. 

“Ah, no need for that, ink and paper will do just fine.” 

Agnes smiled and began to whisper as she wrote 

‘Statement of Agnes Montague, about her birth and life as a desolate messiah…’


	2. Chapter 2

“Statement of Agnes Montague, about her birth and life as a desolate messiah. 

I was brought into this world by a mother whose whole life was dedicated to serving her God. She went so far as to sacrifice her own life to the Lightless Flame-- she felt it was the least she could do to bear a child and bring about a new age. I’m sure you’re familiar with our rituals by now, Archivist, so I won’t bore you with the details.

My earliest memories are of being doted on. I was an angry child filled with unbridled heat and malice- that’s why I was sent to live on Hill Top Road. To hide my rage in plain sight with children who wouldn’t be missed. I was happier there. Watching all those simple boys suffering, cast out from the beginning of their worthless existences by their parents. Those boys never really knew any sort of love. Not like the adoration from them. I felt it every waking moment. 

I suppose if any child ever defined the term god complex it should have been a young demigod like myself. I knew my worthiness from the day I was born. 

My teenage years are a bit more of a blurry, boring mess. Hormonal and angry. I wanted to ravage worlds and burn them just to hear the screams. But this phase didn’t last. By my eighteenth birthday, I learned it was better to have people burn fires for me instead of setting them myself. 

The well put together woman who sits before you now was delicately curated by sacrifices and the screams of others. I’ve only actually killed one man. 

That wretch who looked after me all those years ago. Fielding… 

See it was him that made me realize having the killing done for you, rather than by you, would always be more gratifying.” 

When Gertrude left it was the first time she had ever look truly sad in that coffee shop. Any passer-by would have called her heartbroken. Agnes thought about following Gertrude out but that would mean breaking their then well-established routine. Miss Montague would have to cross the line between watching and watched, more than she already had gambled by giving Gertrude her statement. 

Agnes almost swore she saw Gertrude crumble the sheet once she was down the road a ways. Still, she wasn’t completely sure. Suddenly she wasn't completely sure of any of the archivist's intentions. 

It would be years before she realized Gertrude had burned it. She had tried to keep Agnes hidden from the Eye. 

Agnes waited around late for her usual company the next day. The day turned to night just as the following weeks into months. 

Gertrude Robinson never returned. 

If it wasn’t for the web’’s meddling Agnes would have never felt any inclination to tell Gertrude anything at all. Her whole life had been hiding from the other powers and cultivating her own strength. But now thanks to what she considered a soul bound tragedy, not a day passed that she didn’t miss the company of the archivist. 

Waitresses at the coffee shop noticed that Agnes was alone and undercharged her for coffee for about a week or so, all assuming she’d been dumped. Agnes was unsure of how to thank them and went out of her way to cause a little havoc with any customer who gave them a hard time. 

After Gertrude's abandonment, Agnes worked walking past the Magnus Institute into her routine hoping to catch a glimpse of the archivist at work. She never did, Gertrude certainly knew she was there and stayed clear out of her way. With time Agnes went from sad to angry with Gertrude, believing she'd been used as food for the Eye all along. However, nothing could explain how solemn she'd looked upon their last meeting. More like she knew her end goal had to be Agnes' statement, she didn't want it to be. 

Agnes's desire for Gertrude haunted her for years. Every evening she agonized over their relationship. Questioning why she hadn't waited just one more day to give her statement. Why she hadn't just kept the whole thing to herself. Why she hadn't voiced how she felt about the other woman. 

The acolytes of the Lightless Flame understood something was off with the young Messiah, but no one dared to ask what. Agnes cataloged their attempts to cheer her up, new members were closer to her in age and increasingly more attractive. Evening the offerings were of young brilliant minds. None of them sparked any brilliant response with Agnes. None of them until the recruitment of Jude Perry. 

Roughly twenty years had passed since Agnes last saw Gertrude. Still, Jude was the first person to pass through Canyon Coffee who caught Agnes’ attention. It was the same as any other day in her lonely favorite spot. She’d noticed Jude staring at her with a look that reminded her so much of the way Gertrude used to. Agnes got up and decided to say something about it.

"Can I help you?" 

"Oh, did you catch me staring?” She'd replied, her voice dripping with contempt. “It's just, you've been in here for ages and haven't even sipped your coffee-- besides the steam is still rolling off of it, and I--" Jude stopped as Agnes' gaze turned icy, "I just want to know how is all." Her voice never wavered, despite Agnes putting off tides of hate, the energy between them electrified. 

"I can show you, if you really want to know," Agnes grinned and hovered her hand above Jude's.

Jude swallowed, "Please." 

Instead of giving her a hand full of flames that would have left her permanently scarred, Agnes placed a single warm fingertip in the middle of Jude's palm. The heat and friction making her groan. Jude pressed her hand harder into Agnes' finger, despite the pain and let out a quiet moan when Agnes pulled away. 

Agnes was shocked. "I think you should follow me home," she'd said her sly grin growing wicked. 

"Please." 

Jude Perry was on her knees in Agnes' living room with her hands tied beyond her back. Agnes was looming over her, that wicked grin still spread wide across her face. She reached out and planted her hands firmly on either of Jude's shoulders. Her hands were warm, almost comfortably so, but as she pressed them down harder the temperature rose. Jude groaned and Agnes took her hands away, smirking at the red marks she had left. She trailed her fingers down Jude's arms leaving red lines after as Jude arched her back, practically offering her chest to Agnes. 

"Kiss me," Jude pleaded, eyes big and wanting. 

"I don't think so, pet. Not yet at least." Agnes hadn't kissed anyone in quite some time-- not even Gertrude, she realized with a pang in her chest-- without it turning lethal. 

"Please," Jude continued, "I'll do anything." 

"Let me have my fun first," Agnes responded, creating five little bubbling marks on Jude's arm. 

Judes moans grew louder and her head dropped to her chest as Agnes left tiny burn spots across her body. She lifted the hem of Jude's shirt and planted her hand against her stomach causing her to cry out. The noise was louder than Agnes had anticipated and she shuddered, finally feeling the fire within her burning hot at Jude's misery. Jude arched her back and she looked up at Agnes. "Please," she pleaded, her mouth falling into a pretty little oval. 

Agnes leaned down and grazed her lips over Judes, they were warm, but not scorching. Jude was smart enough to know if she got too eager, there would be hazardous consequences, she stayed locked in place like a statue. Then Agnes’ hands were on her chest, above her heart, her lips were on Jude’s neck. Finally being kissed and held was sending Jude reeling. She felt like she was falling and dancing all at once as Agnes unclasped her bra with one hand and stroked at her scalp with the other. 

Jude was gone the moment Agnes’ ever-warming hand grazed her chest. The tension of it all, feeling Agnes had ripped Jude apart and tipped her right over the edge. 

Agnes was delighted with herself. She’d ruined this woman without even fully undressing her. She’d thought about killing her right then and there, but someone about Jude’s attention piqued her interest. She could stay, for the time being, Agnes decided. Give Agnes a little more fun before she soiled her completely.

Agnes wrote down the next meeting time and location for the Cult of the Lightless Flame and handed it to Jude as she stood in her doorway. “Come.” Was all she said before she closed it in her face. She could see a spark in Jude that would be hard for anyone to ignore. No use turning her into a martyr, not yet anyway.


End file.
